Swarthmore College, Department of Modern Languages and Literatures

500 College Ave. Swarthmore, PA 19081 E-Mail: mrojavi1@swarthmore.edu

www.swarthmore.edu/Humanities/voyages/home.html

Voyage s

Volume I, Spring 2009

Voyage s Volume I, Spring 2009

Editor: Marina Rojavin

Editorial Board: Aurora Camacho de Schmidt

Sibelan Forrester

Alexandra Gueydan

Micheline Rice-Maximin

Consulting Editors: Aman Attieh

Sibelan Forrester

Alexandra Gueydan

Micheline Rice-Maximin

Marina Rojavin

Editor’s Notes Ludwig van Beethoven was born in a family where music was the way of life and he performed when he was nine and thereafter, he continued his musical studies playing piano, violin and organ. However, he could not help but write music and the world recognized him as one of the greatest composers of all time. Russian diplomat Aleksandr Griboedov began writing comedy early and created a number of works, but his fame came after he wrote the comedy Woe from Wit—a satire on the Russian society of the 30’s of the 19th century, the reflection of his insight and judgment of the society. Arabian Nights, written and gathered long ago, inspired and continue stimulating many artists from various fields to produce their own works. Chinese philosopher Chuang-tzu dreamed he was a butterfly, flit-flittering about carefree; on waking he wondered whether he really was the butterfly dreaming he was Chuang-tzu. What is your dream? The Muse of Italian humanist Francesco Petrarca was a woman known as Laura, with whom he was barely acquainted and to whom he devoted his sonnets, which inspired many poet-followers. One of the most famous paintings of Spanish artist and sculptor Pablo Picasso, Guernica, portrayed the Spanish Civil War of 1937, depicted the brutality of war and invoked controversial feelings. Murasaki Shikibu (c. 973-c. 1014) received an education in classical Chinese language and literature from her father, despite the fact that such education was not appropriate for women at the time. She used her knowledge to write The Tale of Genji, often considered the world's first novel. Alexandre Dumas was captivated with his historical novels and the Musketeers became international heroes; at the same time, the writer was passionate about cuisine and composed his famous Grand Dictionnaire de cuisine. The world is varied. A spring of inspiration could be all around—you have to see it and make use of it. One person can find it at an early age, another later, in poetry or philosophy, in music or drawing. Do not wait for the Muse—she will not come until you yourself begin creating art. Seek and ye shall find. The first issue of Voyages features a small but bright collection of creative works of poetry, prose sketches and literary translations. The reader will also find excerpts from a philosophical essay and notes about celebrating the new year in Tunisia. The authors of Voyages are students with various majors or minors, who learn languages at Swarthmore College. In addition to the works of students, you will read some translations by Sibelan Forrester, Professor of Russian. Many thanks to all the students, faculty and staff of the Language Resource Center who supported the idea of the journal—to their enthusiasm, dedication and passion when the first issue of Voyages was brought to life. Bon voyage! Marina Rojavin

Contents

Poems Rebekah Judson English – Russian

Museum People

We Don't Know How to Speak

The Tatoo

Dan Sito Russian – English

Post Office

Poison

The Year 2009

Examination

Verse About Masha the Cat

Yan Zlatopolsky Russian – translated into English by

Sibelan Forrester

Day

Cigarette

Fiction Andrew Cheng

Thank You French – English

Jenna Zhu French – translated by Sarah Hawkins The Player

Ladulé Lako Losarah French – translated by Eleanor Glewwe

Metro Belleville

Philosophical Notes Richard Stillman Russian – English

Excerpts from the original essay Overcoming Nihilism

Traditions and Cuisine

Camilia Kamoun Arabic – English

Holidays in the Republic of Tunisia

About Our Authors Andrew Cheng is a freshman at Swarthmore College. He has studied French on and off

for six years, though he has rarely ventured into the realms of creative writing in the

language he hopes someday to master.

Sibelan Forrester is Professor of Russian at Swarthmore College. She has published

translations of prose and poetry from Russian and Croatian, and of prose from Serbian.

Eleanor Glewwe is a first-year from Edina, Minnesota. In addition to French, she also

studies Chinese. She enjoys creative writing and playing the cello.

Sarah Hawkins is a sophomore majoring in Linguistics with French and Arabic. She

hopes to someday have enough confidence to claim she is bilingual.

Rebekah Judson '12, from upstate New York, has been writing poetry since elementary

school and studying Russian off and on for the past four years. This is her first endeavor

combining these two interests, an effort she hopes to continue in the near future.

Camilia Kamoun is a sophomore from Wynnewood, Pennsylvania. She intends to major in

Arabic Language and Islamic Studies Islamic, with a focus on Islamic culture in the Iberian

peninsula. She is also involved in the Global Health Forum and is planning to attend

medical school after graduation. She is born to Tunisian parents and regularly visits

Tunisia.

Ladulé Lako Losarah is a senior from Davis, California. He studies environmental science

and French in addition to being a four year member of the Garnet soccer team and

campus environmental group, Earthlust. Ladulé is passionate about permaculture and

hopes to include permaculture in his graduate studies and career plans.

Dan Sito is a senior at Swarthmore, majoring in Russian and Economics. In his spare time

he enjoys writing music (in addition to the occasional Russian poem).

Richard Stillman is a sophomore; he is an honors major in Philosophy. His primary

interests are Nietzsche, Heidegger, Psychobiology, and ‘embodiment’ as a

phenomenological problematic.

Jenna Zhu is a freshman and a prospective Political Science major, but writing has always

been another interest.

Yan Zlatopolsky (1947-2006) lived in Kyïv (Ukraine), until 1996, when he emigrated to

Germany. For many years he was a director at a studio for popular science films. After he

met Iryna, the couple wrote plays for children and parable-like short stories (in Russian).

He began writing poetry late in life, after he moved to Germany, and his poems are

strongly original, not reminiscent of traditional Russian poetry.

Rebekah Judson .Музейныe люди Я завидую музейным людям‚ оттого, что их лёгкие замусорены ложными местами. Оттого, что их кожа похожа на стены библиотеки. Оттого, что они ходят по исторям. Я завидую музейным людям оттого, что они выдыхают болезнь упругих вен. Я завидую им оттого, что они заражают меня. Я ощущаю в крови каждую комнату их тела‚ каждое пространство, которое совпадает с их кривыми и прямыми.

Museum People I envy the museum people for the way their lungs are littered with wrong places. For having skin like library walls. For treading on stories. I envy the museum people for exhaling a disease of resilient veins. I envy them for how I am infected, how I feel in my bloodstream every room of their body every space that coincides with their curves and ends.

Татуировка Я родилась с татуировкой‚ на которой две двери святилища нарисованы густыми чернилами на ямочках в низу спины. Когда увидели её – сморщенную и сероватую – врачи сказали‚ – это родинка. Но в беспорядочной дымке больничных машин, металлических инструментов и стерильныx простынь мы знали‚ татуировка – это ещё одно открытие, как губы или скопление пор,

The Tatoo I was born with a tatoo of two sanctuary doors, drawn in heavy ink on the dimples of my lower back. Upon seeing it— wrinkled and slightly grey— the doctors said it was a birthmark. But in the muddled haze of hospital machinery, metallic instruments and sterile sheets, we knew the tatoo was simply another opening, like a mouth or collection of pores,

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только как-то глаже‚ ровнее. Её назначение непонятно и притягательно.

only somehow smoother, it's function hidden and well-formed.

Мы не знаем, как говорить Наши руки свисают‚ натянутые магнетизмом, пальцы слегка напряжены‚ когда мы смотрим на половицы – их пять между нами. Мы не знаем‚ как говорить. У тебя пятнышко жира над левой бровью. Оно странно завораживает – мне хочется остановить твою руку‚ когда ты вытираешь лоб. Мы не знаем‚ как – я не знаю‚ как говорить. Кажется, что разговоры повисают верёвками вокруг твоей шеи. Мои пальцы не развязывают. Я не знаю‚ как – Они не знают‚ как говорить. Можешь ли ты сделать понятной для меня грамматику наших локотей и колен, заострённых концов наших членов, которые кажутся нереальными на некотором расстоянии. Мы не знаем – Ты кричишь‚ и мы встречаемся в эхе. Мы не знаем‚ как говорить.

We Don't Know How to Speak Our hands hang in a strained magnetism, fingers pulled slightly taut as we look askance at the floorboards; five, between us. We don't know how to speak. You have a spot of grease just above your left eyebrow. I am strangely endeared, almost want to stop your hand as you wipe it away. We don't know how I don't know how to speak. Conversations seem to hang in ropes around your neck. My fingers are not the untying kind. I don't know how They don't know how to speak. Can you arrange for me the grammar of our elbows and knees, pointy ends of limbs which seem uncertain at this distance. We don't know You shout, and we meet at the echo. We don't know how to speak.

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Dan Sito

Почта Куда же?! Кому же?! Я отвечу вам позже – Уменя нет марок. Есть только время. (Октябрь 08-го года) Яд Яд стоит на столе В этой золотой чаше. Не пей его! Я тоже сижу там – (За столом.) Мой стул – неплохой: Подушечка – удобная. У меня много времени, чтобы думать. Я пишу эти стихи Зелёным ядом Вместo чернил. (Январь 09-го года) 2009 год Старый год – Забытый год Голый год Спящий год Новый год – Тёмный год Овсяный год Голодный год (Январь 09-го года)

Post Office To where?! To whom?! I’ll answer you later – I have no stamps. Here there is only time. (October 2008) Poison Poison sits on the table In this golden cup. Don’t drink it! I also sit there – (Аt the table.) My chair’s not bad: The cushion is comfortable. I have plenty of time to think. I write these verses Using green poison, In place of ink. (January 2009) The Year 2009 Old year – Forgotten year Naked year Sleeping year New year – Dark year Oat year Hungry year (January 2009)

Экзамен Я сдал Вас Я съел Вас Хватит. Мне не нужно больше (ни в голове ни в горле). Пока я жевал Вас, Я думал: нас Спрашивали И мы правильно отвечали А теперь нас больше не будет... Не здесь. И поэтому, ножом На тарелке Я говорю: До Свидания (Январь 09-го года)

Стих О Кошке Маше я написал по-русски, когда я был ребёнком, с помощью моего отца, когда мы в машине ехали в Массачусеттс У Маши есть носик. У Маши есть хвостик. У Маши есть лапки. У Маши есть царапки. (1995 год?)

Examination I finished you I ate you Enough. I don’t need any more (Not in my head Not in my throat). While I chewed you, I thought too: We were asked And we correctly answered But now we will no longer be… Not here. And so, with knife On my plate I say: Good Bye (January 2009) Verse About Masha the Cat, which I wrote in Russian while I was a child, with the help of my father, in the car, while we were driving to Massachusetts Masha has a nose. Masha has a tail. Masha has paws. Masha has claws. (1995?)

Yan Zlatopolsky День День окончен и свёрнут‚ как свиток. Что в нём было?.. Не помню‚ не знаю… Что пророчил он утром и прочил? Чем морочил меня до заката? Он под красной сургучной печатью‚ За последнею строчкою – точка. Что же… Надо бы завтра сначала‚ Да бумаги-то нет ни листочка. (Переделано Ириной Златопольской с ведома и одобрения Яна Златопольского) 2004 Сигарета Но напрасно желая

Видеть хоть дым‚ от родных берегов вдалеке восходящий‚ Смерти одной он молит.

Homer. Odyss. 1, 56-58 (Перевод В. Жуковского) Позволь мне умереть от собственной руки‚ держащей сигарету‚ в своём дому и в собственном дыму. Так с тела жизни стереть родимое пятно хочу возгонкой: из твёрдого – в летучее – и в небо – сизой струйкой дыма... Так улетает сладко в никуда и в пустоту дым сигареты‚ которую в руке держу... ... Затяжка – Взгляд бежит‚ бежит‚ летит за дымом‚ туда‚ где он‚ с кудряшками расставшись‚ Завесой станет дыма. Дымной. Дымовой. 2005

Translated by Sibelan Forrester

Day Day is done and rolled up like a scroll. What it held? I don’t know, don’t recall. What did morning intend and foretell? What till night had me muddled and fooled? The day’s under a seal of red wax, After the final line – a full stop. Well… tomorrow I ought to start over, But all my of my paper’s used up. 2004 (revised by Iryna Zlatopolska with approval of Yan Zlatopolsky) Cigarette But wishing in vain To see at least smoke rising from the distant shores of home, He begs for the death of one woman. Homer, Odyssey I, 56-58 (from V. Zhukovsky’s translation) Allow me to die by my own hand, the one that holds a cigarette, in my own home and in my own fume. Thus I wish to wash the birth mark from life’s body By sublimation: From solid – into volatile – and on to heaven – in a dove-grey trickle of smoke… Thus the smoke of a cigarette, which I hold in my hand, flies away sweetly into nowhere and emptiness… … One breath in – The gaze races, races, flies after the smoke, that way where, leaving behind its baby curls, it becomes a smoky veil. In scents. Incensed.

Andrew Cheng

SEPTA Suburban Station, Philadelphia, 15:17 Dimanche 14/09/08

Merci Les sons amplifiés de sa guitare acoustique résonnent contre les murs de la station. Il

s’assied devant une colonne, sur une vieille chaise en plastique, à côté d’une petite boîte

en bois. Il porte une chemise écossaise, soit brune soit salie; on ne peut pas dire, elle est

si usée… Son pantalon fil-à-fil est trop court, révélant des chevilles minces vêtues de

chaussettes à carreaux éclatants noir et blanc. Chaussures en cuir, aussi hagardes que lui.

Les sons d’une rivière résonnent contre les murs. Ce n’est rien d’extraordinaire, mais la

mélodie est sereine, pas de paroles. Sa guitare et son médiateur créent un air de blues

tandis qu’il bat le rythme régulier avec sa paume. Ses yeux sont fermés et son sourire est

pincé, mais la boîte en bois est ouverte. Bien arrangée auprès de lui, une pile de livres de

poche, quelques CD, et un signe en carton où est inscrit au feutre noir :

***

MON LIVRE - $10

MON CD - $5

MERCI

***

Un adolescent portant un tee-shirt violet urbain, un short kaki, et de nouvelles tennis,

passe devant lui, écouteurs autour du cou. Il ralentit un peu alors qu’il voit l’homme à la

guitare, puis accélère lorsqu’il tourne au coin.

Le philosophe-musicien continue à jouer.

Puis l’ado revient, s’arrête devant la scène. Il examine la couverture des bouquins par

terre, et les CD, et il écoute. Il met la main dans sa poche arrière et… Il prend son

portable, vérifie l’heure, met ses écouteurs autour de ses oreilles. Il sort, puis accélère

lorsqu’il tourne au coin.

Le philosophe-musicien continue à jouer. Sa propre rivière coule.

SEPTA Suburban Station, Philadelphia, 3:17pm, Sunday 9-14-08

Thank You

The amplified sounds from his acoustic guitar echo off the walls of the station. He is

sitting in front of a pillar, on an old plastic chair, next to a small wooden box. He is

wearing a plaid shirt, either brown or just as dirty (it's so worn one could not tell...). His

pinstripe pants are too short, revealing skinny ankles dressed in furiously checkered

black-and-white socks. Leather shoes, as haggard as he is.

The sounds of a river echo off the walls. It is nothing extraordinary, but the melody is

serene, no need for words. His guitar and pick create a bluesy air while he beats out a

regular rhythm with the palm of his hand. His eyes are closed and his smile is thin, but

the small wooden box is open. Neatly arranged beside, a stack of paperback books, a few

CDs, and a sign made of cardboard and Sharpie:

***

MY BOOK - $10

MY CD - $5

THANK YOU

***

A teenager sporting a purple graphic tee, khaki shorts, and new sneakers walks by,

headphones around his neck. He slows down a bit as he sees the man with the guitar,

speeds up again as he turns the corner.

The philosophe-musicien continues to play.

Then the teen returns, stopping in front of the stage. He studies the cover of the books on

the ground, the CDs, and listens. He reaches into his back pocket... and takes out his cell

phone, checks the time, puts his headphones over his ears. He leaves, speeds up again as

he turns the corner.

The philosophe-musicien continues to play. His own river flows.

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Jenna Zhu

Like for all Swatties, the writer’s struggle, his grappling with words in the effort to find

the perfect one to give form to his perfect idea, treads upon dangerously familiar territory,

but one whose lands have the potential take us on wild explorations, to newer heights and

to greater places than we sometimes have ever imagined. I came across this scene one

evening on a great adventure in “Everybody’s Hometown,” Media, Pennsylvania, and

tried to imagine what was going on in every character’s head.

Le 15 septembre 2008

Le joueur

Un joueur s’assied, la guitare sur les genoux, avec des personnes qui l’entourent devant la

boutique. Nuit pure. Notes tremblantes qui s’envolent dans les airs. Le jeune se perd dans

la chanson et les autres se taisent.

La belle : C’est qui ce mec ?

L’ami : Un musicien local. Il travaille au bureau des impôts, mais il ne vit pas vraiment le

jour.

La belle : C’est dommage.

L’ami : Non, c’est le seul d’entre nous qui sait comment vivre.

Elles retournent leurs têtes vers la musique. En face, trois jeunes filles en pleine floraison,

peau de moka, lèvres de miel et sourires lumineux, saluent les inconnus dans la rue. Elles

mènent le troupeau, la foule qui se promène, silencieuse, qui marche en ordre serré mais

sans direction et ignore la nuit, la vie. Un gros vieux qui va en sens inverse suit son grand

chien à taches éparses. Le chien fait s’arrêter les filles et le troupeau. Elles le caressent

  2

vigoureusement, tendrement. Les notes flottent au vent, filent et dépassent les oreilles des

personnes à l’essaim.

« La vie au sens nu… n’est plus que la vie réelle… »

La nuit libre, la nuit limpide donne une brillance aux gouttes de sueur sur le visage du

joueur, aux carreaux de verre liquide, aux reflets de lumière sur les dents de perle des

jeunes filles.

Il est dix heures moins dix. La foule avait déjà été dispersée, et le joueur rit à la fin de sa

chanson. Personne ne l’entend, et le chien se détache des filles et continue sa promenade

avec le vieux.

Translated by Sarah Hawkins

September 15th, 2008

The Player

A player is seated in front of the store, guitar on his knees, with a crowd surrounding him.

Pure night. Trembling notes fly through the air. The young man is lost in his song and

the audience is quiet.

A pretty girl: Who’s that guy?

Her friend: A local musician. He’s got a day job at the IRS, but he’s not really

alive during the day.

A pretty girl: That’s a shame.

Her friend: Not really, he’s the only one here who’s figured out how to live.

The two friends turn their heads back toward the music. Across the street, three young

women in full bloom, with mocha skin, honeyed lips, and dazzling smiles, greet strangers

  3

in the street. They lead a flock, their silent masses, marching in tight yet directionless

formation, paying no attention to the night and the life surrounding them. A fat old man

heading towards them is walking a large dog with a patchy coat. The dog makes the girls

and their flock stop. They pet him vigorously, tenderly. Notes waft through the wind,

floating past the ears of the spectators in the swarm.

“A life with senses raw... is nothing more than life...”

The clear, limitless night makes beads of sweat shimmer on the player’s brow, like

trembling beads of glass, like the young women’s pearly teeth.

It’s ten till ten. The crowd has already dispersed, and the player laughs as he finishes his

song. No one hears him. The dog pries himself away from the girls and continues his

walk with the old man.

 

Ladulé Lako Losarah

Métro Belleville

C’était une journée typique dans le métro parisien, j’ai couru pour prendre mes

correspondances, presque toutes les stations sentaient comme des toilettes jamais nettoyées, et en

plus il y avait trop d’affluence pour se servir des strapontins. Le souterrain, un endroit où

l’écoulement du temps et les déplacements dans l’espace sont déformés. Peu importe, j’avais un

devoir sur une expérience culturelle à compléter.

Je suis descendu de la ligne 2 au métro Belleville où j’avais rendez-vous sur le quai avec

une amie pour assister au festival des ateliers de Belleville, un festival où tous les ateliers de

Belleville sont ouverts au public. En sortant du train, j’ai attendu quelques instants que la foule

quitte le quai. Il restait quelques personnes, « ceux qui n’étaient pas pressés ou bien, ceux qui

attendaient des autres sur le quai comme moi », ai-je deviné sans considération. J’ai regardé à

gauche, puis à droite ; je n’ai pas vu mon amie. « Peut-être que je suis en avance ou alors en

retard » me disais-je, le dernier cas étant plus probable. Le clignotant de double zéro, signalant

l’arrivée du prochain train, attira mon regard. J’ai jeté un coup d’œil sur l’affichage

automatique. 17h01 lisait-on sur l’horloge numérique. « Pour la première fois de ma vie »,

pensais-je, « je suis à l’heure à un rendez-vous ! ». Mais elle, où était-elle ?

À ce moment, le quai s’est repeuplé de voyageurs prêts à monter au prochain train. Le

train entrait dans la station avec le bruit typique des freins tels deux plateaux d’acier qui se

frottent. J’ai regardé chaque fenêtre du train qui passait pour voir un visage familier parmi les

inconnus. Le train s’est arrêté et la même scène chaotique s’est rejouée sur le quai. Tout le

monde sortait d’un coup, le bruit des gens, de ceux qui parlaient entre eux, sur leur portable, et

tous ceux qui étaient pressés en train de pousser les autres pour rentrer tranquillement chez eux

après une longue journée de travail. Même la température montait. J’ai jeté un coup d’œil sur le

panneau d’affichage. 17h05 prochain train dans 4 minutes.

Le quai commençait à se vider. Il y avait un autre homme sur le quai avec moi et

quelques vieilles dames assises sur un banc. Le quai était silencieux — le ciel bleu après l’orage.

C’était un emballement-effondrement -- plein puis tout de suite vide, et plein de nouveau -- qui

m’a fait penser à une sinusoïde. Eux, les trois répandus sur le quai avec de grandes distances

entre l’un et l’autre attendaient le prochain train ; prêts pour les quatre minutes d’attente qui, sur

le quai, sont les quatre minutes les plus longues de leur vie. J’ai vu que cet homme essayait

d’attirer mon attention discrètement. Il marchait vers moi avec nonchalance, il s’est arrêté, et il

m’a regardé à la dérobée. Je sentais son regard.

Dès que j’ai senti que la chaleur de son regard avait quitté l’arrière de ma tête, je me suis

retourné pour le regarder. Il était d’un certain âge, j’aurais dit environ 45 ans, les cheveux un

peu blanchis quand vu dans un rayon de lumière, des rides sur un visage buriné, et un regard

anxieux. Il portait un jean bleu clair défraîchi et un veston déchiré qui avait vu beaucoup

d’années. Il y avait des trous dans ses baskets, autrefois toutes blanches. Le monsieur faisait des

aller-retours sur le quai, mais il s’arrêtait toujours à côté des escaliers, non pas les escaliers de

sortie pour aller dehors, dans le jour, mais les escaliers de correspondance où les voyageurs qui

changent de train pouvaient monter sur le quai pour prendre cette direction.

Le prochain train était à l’approche et avec le cycle, le quai se remplit avec des personnes

qui allaient monter dans le train. De nouveau, je regardais chaque fenêtre du train qui passait

devant moi. Je ne vis pas mon amie. Le train s’arrêta. Je regardais mon homme. Il n’est pas

monté, il restait immobile, toujours à côté de ces escaliers. Le train a quitté le quai. C’était sûr,

lui aussi, qu’il attendait quelqu’un. 17h12, prochain train 2 minutes. Au moins 15 minutes de

retard mon amie ! Cependant, je n’étais pas embêté par son retard, mon rendez-vous ne

m’intéressait plus, mes pensées étaient fixées sur cet homme énigmatique et celui qui allait le

rejoindre sur le quai. J’ai commencé à inventer des histoires pour lui. « Sa fille avait été

kidnappée et il allait rencontrer les kidnappeurs pour leur payer la rançon. Il devait tout vendre

pour accumuler la somme de la rançon et il vivait dans la rue depuis deux semaines, depuis que

sa fille avait été kidnappée. Il était dans un tel état, il n’allait tellement pas bien depuis qu’il

avait quitté son travail et que sa femme l’avait quitté ce mois ». D’autres histoires défilaient

dans ma tête.

17h20. Le clignotant de double zéro impliqua l’arrivée du prochain train. Un train entra

dans la station, je ne me suis même pas levé pour regarder les fenêtres et chercher mon amie,

j’étais complètement captivé par ce monsieur. Le train s’est arrêté au quai et les voyageurs ont

débarqué dans un chaos violent. On dirait une foule de zèbres en fuite devant un lion. Ils étaient

tellement pressés qu’ils se poussaient et se mélangeaient pour retrouver la lumière du jour en

premier. Le monsieur regardait parmi la foule. J’ai essayé de deviner lequel ou laquelle de ces

personnes il attendait. La foule s’est dispersée mais lui, il restait toujours à côté des mêmes

escaliers. Il s’est rendu compte que moi aussi, j’étais sur le quai depuis longtemps et que je

n’avais pris aucun des trois ou quatre trains qui venaient de passer. Je me demandais si lui

aussi, il avait les mêmes pensées à mon sujet, pourquoi j’étais là, qui j’attendais, quelle était

mon histoire. Mais j’étais incapable de penser à autre chose qu’à l’histoire de cet homme

mystérieux.

17h25. Prochain train 4 minutes. Je croyais qu’un train venait de passer mais je n’étais

pas sûr car à ce point je n’étais plus attentif aux trains qui passaient. Un train était à l’approche

de l’autre côté et j’ai remarqué que le monsieur était beaucoup plus réceptif, il attendait

quelqu’un de l’autre coté — voilà pourquoi il était à côté des escaliers de correspondance. Mais

pourquoi n’était-il pas sur l’autre quai, pourquoi est-ce qu’il attendait près des escaliers ? « Ça

doit être quelque chose de clandestin » j’ai soupçonné, trop intrigué pour bouger où penser à

autre chose. Il restait là, toujours la tête anxieuse.

Les trains de l’autre quai m’intéressaient plus que ceux de mon côté et je ne me suis plus

rendu compte des trains qui passaient de mon côté. Je ne pensais même pas à l’heure. Au train

suivant de l’autre côté, une foule descendait de manière chaotique comme d’habitude. Je suis

allé à côté du monsieur qui attirait toute mon attention. On a entendu un petit soufflet. Le

monsieur a réagi tout de suite, comme un chien qui entend l’appel de son maître, et il a fouillé

dans ses poches et a sorti un billet qu’il a vite serré dans la main comme un petit caillou. Un

autre monsieur sombre et mystérieux, celui qui avait sifflé, attendait dans le couloir des escaliers.

L’homme a descendu la moitié des escaliers où l’autre monsieur l’a rejoint. Je regardais d’en

haut des escaliers. Les deux se sont serré la main vite fait sans regarder, sans rien dire. Toujours

anxieux, l’homme a essayé de dire un petit mot inaudible à l’autre monsieur. L’autre l’a ignoré

complètement et a retrouvé son anonymat en marchant en contresens de la foule, dans la

direction opposée, en descendant les escaliers. C’était fini ; l’intrigue était dévoilée.

17h39. Je regardais le clignotant de double zéro sur le panneau automatique. Le train est

arrivé et la foule s’engouffra sur le quai. Perdu parmi la foule, le monsieur — anonyme — est

monté dans le train, je ne l’ai même pas vu.

17h40. Je me suis retrouvé tout seul sur le quai silencieux. J’ai respiré et je me suis assis

sur un banc.

Je pensais à la vie souterraine, le côté de la vie quotidienne que l’on ne voit pas du

premier regard, le côté qui est caché dans l’ombre, que l’on ne perçoit pas à moins de chercher à

le reconnaitre. Pas seulement la vie souterraine de Paris dans le Métro où la vie souterraine des

gens comme moi, comme vous, comme cet homme. Mais, je pensais aux quartiers populaires de

Paris, comme Belleville, où les touristes ne mettent jamais les pieds. Ce quartier qui ne se trouve

jamais sur une carte postale de Paris, un quartier où les cafés ne mettent pas d’affiche à la fenêtre

disant « We speak english here ! ». Un quartier où l’on travaille, où l’on fait la fête, où l’on est

artistes, ouvriers, où l’on galère, l’où on traîne dans la rue avec rien à faire, où on vit — à l’autre

bout de Paris — inaperçu, souterrain.

17h43. À ce moment, mon portable a sonné. C’était mon amie. Elle m’a dit « Tu es où ?

Ça fait déjà trois quarts d’heure que je t’attends ! ». Je suis revenu à la réalité.

Finalement, notre rendez-vous n’était pas sur le quai, c’était à la sortie du métro

Belleville. Elle m’a excusé de m’être trompé et elle m’a dit « vas-y ! Monte ! On a encore du

temps pour faire le tour des ateliers ». Je lui ai répondu, « c’est même pas la peine, j’ai déjà le

sujet de mon compte-rendu ». Puis je suis devenu anonyme moi-même en suivant la foule au

prochain train. Je suis monté inaperçu dans ce train, en direction de chez moi.

Translated by Eleanor Glewwe

Metro Belleville

It was a typical day in the Parisian metro: I ran to make my connections, almost all the

stations smelled like bathrooms that were never cleaned, and on top of that it was too crowded to

use the folding seats. Underground, a place where the passing of time and movements through

space are distorted. It didn’t matter; I had an assignment on a cultural experience to complete.

I got off line 2 at the Belleville station where I was meeting a friend on the platform to

attend the festival of Belleville art studios, a festival where all the studios in Belleville are open

to the public. After leaving the train, I waited a few moments for the crowd to leave the platform.

A few people were left over, “those who weren’t in a hurry, or those who were waiting for others

on the platform like me,” I guessed without consideration. I looked left, then right; I didn’t see

my friend. “Maybe I’m early, or else late,” I said to myself, the latter being more probable. The

blinking double zero, indicating the arrival of the next train, caught my eye. I glanced at the

automatic display. The digital clock read 5:01. “For the first time in my life,” I thought, “I’m on

time to a meeting!” But where was she?

At that moment, the platform was repopulated with passengers ready to get on the next

train. The train entered the station with the typical noise of the breaks, like two steel plates

rubbing against each other. I looked at each window of the passing train, looking for a familiar

face among the strangers. The train stopped, and the same chaotic scene replayed itself on the

platform. Everyone was coming off at once, the noise of people, of those who were talking

amongst themselves, on their cell phones, and all those who were in a hurry and pushing the

others to go quietly back home after a long day of work. Even the temperature rose. I glanced at

the display panel. 5:05, next train in 4 minutes.

The platform was starting to empty. There was another man on the platform with me and

a few old ladies sitting on a bench. The platform was quiet—the blue sky after the storm. It was a

boom-and-bust—full, then immediately empty, and full once again—that made me think of a

sine curve. Those others, the three spread out on the platform with large distances between them

were waiting for the next train; ready for the four minutes of waiting that, on the platform, are

the four longest minutes of their lives. I saw that that man was discreetly trying to get my

attention. He was walking towards me with nonchalance, he stopped, and he looked at me

furtively. I felt his gaze.

As soon as I felt that the heat of his gaze had left the back of my head, I turned around to

look at him. He was middle-aged, I’d have said about 45 years old, hair graying a bit when seen

in a ray of light, wrinkles on a craggy face, and an anxious gaze. He was wearing faded light blue

jeans and a torn jacket that had seen many years. There were holes in his once-white sneakers.

The man was walking back and forth on the platform, but he always stopped next to the stairs,

not the exit stairs to go outside, into the day, but the connecting stairs through which the travelers

who were changing trains could come onto the platform to go in this direction.

The next train was approaching, and with the cycle, the platform filled with people who

were going to get on the train. Once again, I looked at each window of the train passing in front

of me. I did not see my friend. The train stopped. I was watching my man. He didn’t get on, he

remained motionless, still next to those stairs. The train left the platform. He had to be waiting

for someone too. 5:12 next train 2 minutes. My friend was at least 15 minutes late! Yet I wasn’t

annoyed by her lateness, my meeting didn’t interest me anymore, my thoughts were fixed on this

enigmatic man and the person who would join him on the platform. I started to invent stories for

him. “His daughter has been kidnapped, and he’s going to meet the kidnappers to pay them the

ransom. He […] had to sell everything to get enough money for the ransom, and he’s been living

on the street for two weeks, ever since his daughter was kidnapped. He’s in such a state; he really

hasn’t been doing well ever since he […] quit his job and his wife […] left him this month.”

Other stories paraded in my head.

5:20. The blinking double zero meant the next train was arriving. A train entered the

station, I didn’t even get up to look at the windows to look for my friend, as I was completely

captivated by this man. The train stopped at the platform, and the travelers disembarked in

violent chaos. The confusion of a crowd of zebras fleeing a lion ensued. They were in such a

hurry that they were pushing each other and getting all mixed up in order to be the first to reach

the light of day again. The man was looking among the crowd; I tried to guess which one of

these people he was waiting for. The crowd then dispersed, but he still stayed next to the same

stairs. He realized that I too had been on the platform for a long time and that I hadn’t taken any

of the three or four trains that had just passed. I was wondering if he too was thinking the same

things about me, why I was there, who I was waiting for, what my story was. But I was incapable

of thinking of anything other than the story of this mysterious man.

5:25. Next train 4 minutes. I thought a train had just passed, but I wasn’t sure because at

this point I was no longer paying attention to the passing trains. A train was approaching on the

other side, and I noticed that the man was a lot more receptive, he was waiting for someone from

the other side—that was why he was next to the connecting stairs. But why wasn’t he on the

other platform, why was he waiting near the stairs? “It must be something clandestine,” I

suspected, too intrigued to move or to think of anything else. He remained there, still looking

anxious.

The other platform’s trains interested me more than those on my side, and I no longer

noticed the trains that passed on my side. I wasn’t even thinking of the time. At the next train on

the other side, a crowd got off in a chaotic manner as usual. I went next to the man who attracted

all my attention. We heard a little whistle. The man reacted right away, like a dog that hears its

master’s call, and he rummaged in his pockets and drew out a bill that he quickly squeezed in his

hand like a little pebble. Another man, dark and mysterious, the one who had whistled, was

waiting in the corridor of the stairs. The man went halfway down the stairs where the other man

joined him. I was watching from the top of the stairs. The two shook hands quickly without

looking at each other, without saying anything. Still anxious, the man tried to say something

inaudible to the other man. The other one ignored him completely and regained his anonymity

walking against the crowd, in the opposite direction, going down the stairs. It was over; the plot

was revealed.

5:39. I was looking at the blinking double zero on the automatic display. The train

arrived, and the crowd swallowed up the platform. Lost amidst the crowd, the man—

anonymous—got on the train; I didn’t even see him.

5:40. I found myself all alone on the silent platform. I took a deep breath and I sat down

on a bench.

I began to ponder about […] underground life, the side of daily life that we don’t see at

first glance, the side hidden in the shadows, that we are unable perceive without looking to

recognize it. Not only the underground life of Paris in the metro or the underground life of

people like me, like you, or that man, I was thinking about the working-class districts of Paris,

like Belleville, where tourists never set foot. The neighborhoods that never appear on a Paris

postcard, a district where the cafés don’t hang signs in the window saying, “We speak English

here!” A district where people work, where people party, where people are artists, workers,

where people have a tough time, where people hang around in the street with nothing to do,

where people live—on the other side of Paris—unnoticed, underground.

5:43. At that moment, my cell phone rang. It was my friend. She said to me, “Where are

you? I’ve already been waiting for you for 45 minutes!” I came back to reality.

It turns out that we were supposed to have met not on the platform but at the exit of the

Belleville metro stop. She forgave me for having been mistaken, and she said to me, “Come up!

We still have time visit some of the studios.” I answered her, “It’s not even worth it; I already

have the subject for my report.” Then I myself became anonymous as I followed the crowd onto

the arriving train to head home.

Richard Stillman The following piece was translated from its original language into Russian and then back

into English to reflect the translation's deviations in tone, style, and content.

Отрывки из эссе “Побеждая нигилизм”

В конце девятнадцатого века среди небольшой группы философов возникло

движение, которое было решительно настроено против метода философского

исследования‚ созданного Платоном. Платон так описывал этот метод‚ который

может называться “космология”: это исследование не механизма, а цели.

Основной вопрос космологии не “как”, a “зачем”. Если космолог хочет понять,

например, положение солнца, он не спрашивает: ”Какие физические законы

определяют его расположение?” Он спрашивает: “Почемy положение солнца

удачное? Зачем Бог расположил солнце в этом месте‚ а не в другом?” Космолог –

исследователь намерения.

Несмотря на то‚ что большинство людей отказалось от космологических

исследований природы, космология ещё доминирует в изучении людского

поведения. Почему? Потому что большинство верит, что люди ведут себя (по

крайней мере частично) в соответствии с мотивами, которые они в состоянии

сформулировать. Поэтому они думают, что‚ к примеру, вопрос “Почему мой друг

вёл себя таким образом?” адекватнее и интереcнее‚ чем вопрос ”Какие законы

природы определяли его поведение?” С этим трудно не согласиться.

Невозможно даже вообразить, как общество могло бы функционировать без

космологических исследований, которые поистине необходимы для

судоустройства. Поскольку любой суд влечёт за собой допрос преступника о его

намерениях, сам суд является космологическим исследованием. Общество без

космологических исследований – oбщество без закона, правосудия и наказания.

Действенность и значение человеческих намерений исследуются в каждой области

общественной жизни, и поэтому трудно представить, что несколько самых

знаменитых мыслителей нашего века хотели предать космологические

исследования человеческого поведения забвению. Эти мыслители считали, что

нужно рассматривать существование человека и природы как сочетание

неосознанных поступков, которым нельзя приписывать определённые цели . Они

верили, исходя из этого, что разумное поведение является только частью

человеческого поведения.

Поскольку эти мыслители пытались заполнить космологический пробел

между человеком и природой, они заложили основы нового метода философии.

Наряду, конечно, с традиционным субъективным рассуждением, которое является

основой любой науки, этот метод удачно использует физиологические и

биологические исследования, чтобы улучшить понимание натуры человека‚ его

социального мира‚ чтобы постичь причины его удовлетворённости жизнью.

Однако остается вопрос – кто эти мыслители? Они назывались

психологами, нигилистами, еретиками, экзистенциалистами, научными

работниками и мифологами. Каков же их метод?

Excerpts from the original essay Overcoming Nihilism

At the end of the 19th Century, among a small group of philosophers, a movement

emerged that was decidedly opposed to a prominent modality of philosophic

investigation first employed by Plato. Plato himself described this modality, which one

might dub “Cosmology,” as an investigation not of mechanism, but of purpose. “Why?”

– not “how?”—is its governing question. If a cosmologist wishes to understand, for

instance, the placement of the sun, he does not pose the question: “What physical laws

determine its situation?” He asks, rather: “Why is this placement of the sun a felicitous

one? For what reason did Providence see fit to place the sun here, and not, for instance,

there?” The cosmologist is, before all else, a student of purposes.

Although most people have desisted from cosmological investigations of

“natural” phenomena, cosmology still predominates in the study of human behavior.

Why? Because most people believe that humans conduct their lives in accordance with

reasons that they are (at least partially) capable of articulating. And so, they think that a

question like “Why did my friend behave in such a way?” is simply more relevant and

interesting than a question like “What biological laws determined the motion of his

hand?” It is difficult not to agree.

It is difficult even to imagine how society would function in the absence of

cosmological investigations, which are, in truth, so very essential to our judicial system.

Insofar as any criminal trial involves the probing of an accused person's intentions, every

trial is itself a sort of cosmological investigation. A society without cosmological

investigations would therefore necessarily be a society without law, punishment, and the

administration of justice.

Insofar as the efficacy and importance of human intentions are investigated in

every field of public life, I may scarcely be believed when I say that several of our

century's most notable thinkers wished to consign cosmological investigations of human

behavior to oblivion. These theorists firmly advocated the necessity of understanding

being -- human and "natural" -- as a composite of mindless forces to which it is

impossible to ascribe enduring purposes. They believed, owing to this, that rational

behavior is only a part of human behavior.

And insofar as these theorists even attempted to close the cosmological gap

between humankind and nature, they inaugurated a fundamentally new method of doing

philosophy. This method comfortably employs physiological and biological

methodologies (alongside, of course, traditional subjective meditation, of which the

former are mere extensions), in order to gain fresh insights into the nature of the human

animal, his social world, and the sources of his satisfaction.

One question remains: who are these thinkers? For they have been called

psychologists, nihilists, heretics, existentialists, scientists, and misologues. And how

might one characterize their method?

Camilia Kamoun

Holidays in the Republic of Tunisia

Like most Arab countries, Tunisia is a Muslim country, and the most important holidays

for Tunisians are Muslim ones. Tunisians greatly like celebrations in general, and the most

important days of festivity for Tunisians are the prophet Muhammad’s birthday, the Muslim New

Year, Eid al-Fitr, and Eid al-Adha. Particular customs that vary within different cities and

regions in Tunisia are associated with all these holidays. This article describes Tunisian customs

during these holidays as per my family’s experience in celebrating them, influenced by our city

of origin, Sfax, the second biggest city in Tunisia.

Ras A’sena: the Muslim New Year

Ras A’sena, the Muslim New Year, is similar to the Jewish New Year, called Rosh

Hashanah, and the traditional New Year celebrated every January first. The Muslim New Year

celebrates the beginning of a new year of the lunar calendar, which the religion of Islam follows.

Tunisians eat particular dishes to celebrate this occasion. On the last day of the year, they eat

couscous with dried meat called qadeed. Raisins in the couscous serve to make the new year

“sweet” or, in other words, filled with all that is good. In addition to the raisins, there are hard-

boiled eggs in the couscous, which symbolize the birth of the new year. To cook the couscous,

one pot is placed over another and that gap between the two is sealed with a towel. Tying the

towel around the gap is a symbol of closing the year that has ended. On the first day of the new

year, Tunisian cook “mlukhiya,” a green sauce with meat that is eaten with bread. The sauce is

cooked from a green powder made from a plant called “al-mlukhiya” that is dried and crushed.

People in other Arab countries cook this vegetable when it is fresh. In Egypt, it is cooked in

soup. In Syria, it is stewed with meat. Tunisians open the new year with mlukhiya, because its

green color symbolizes hope and health, things people desire for the new year. Of course,

families get together to celebrate the Muslim New Year and enjoy these special dishes.

Al-mowled: the prophet Muhammad’s birthday

Al-mowled is the celebration of the prophet Muhammad’s birthday. The importance of

this holiday resembles the importance of Christmas for Christians. Tunisians celebrate this

occasion with a dessert called “aasyda zgoogoo,” a type of cream or pudding. There are many

forms of aasyda besides aasyda zgoogoo; the type of aasyda made depends on the wealth and

taste of those who make it. Poorer people make it with semolina and flour, while richer people

make it with nuts, such as hazelnuts, pistachios, and pinenuts. Al-mowled is a time for

circumcision, called tahoor in Tunisia. Around al-mowled, families bring together boys between

the ages of two and seven for a circumcision party, if their wealth

allows it. On this occasion, boys wear a special costume: a white or

yellow gown, called a “jiba,” and a red hat of Turkish origin, called

“shasheya.” Women put henna on their hands and guests place money

under the head of the boys being circumcised to contribute to paying for the party expenses.

Sometimes, wealthy families organize circumcisions for poor families. These days, many people

do not have their sons circumcised in their house, but rather at the hospital at the time of their

birth. In older times, the barber would circumcise boys.

Eid al-Fitr

Eid al-Fitr, the “small Eid,” takes place on the last day of Ramadan for people to

celebrate the end of Ramadan and regain energy after a month of fasting. For God to accept this

month of fasting, it is necessary to give alms, in the form of a sum of money or a quantity of

food given to the poor and needy. Al-mufti, the Islamic leader in Tunisia, decides on the amount

of money or food that people must give. The day of Eid al-Fitr begins with a special prayer, the

prayer of Eid. For this holiday, people buy new clothes and new shoes and get their hair cut.

Family members visit each other and gather for the

feast of Eid, where they eat a lot of sweets and a

special dish, dried fish with “sharmula,” a sauce

made with raisins, onions, and olive oil. In these

modern days, rich people eat European sweets as

well as traditional Tunisian sweets. Finally, children

enjoy new toys and noisemakers, which generate a lot of racket and joy.

Eid al-Adha

Eid al-Adha, which Tunisians called the “big Eid,” serves as a day for Muslims to

remember the prophet Abraham’s sacrifice to God. It is said that God asked Abraham to sacrifice

his son, Ismail, and Abraham, although he loved his son, could not disobey God. When God saw

that Abraham was going to sacrifice his son, God sent a sheep for him to sacrifice in the place of

his son. In this act, we see what a Muslim must do to honor God fully. Eid al-Adha is celebrated

for two days in Tunisia to recognize this great obligation. Tunisian families sacrifice a sheep and

give pieces of the meat or even an entire sheep to the needy. People eat every part of the sheep,

including the heart and the head. For example, on the first day, they grill parts of the sheep and

stuff the intestines with vegetables and the sheep’s organs, such as heart and kidneys. On the

second day, they roast the head in the oven with onions, tomatoes, and potatoes. In truth, Eid al-

Adha takes place on the last day of the Haj, and the sacrifice of the sheep takes place in Mecca,

but Tunisians who are not making the Haj conduct the sacrifice at their homes.

These are the Sfaxian customs for the most important Tunisian holidays. Tunisians

outside of the city of Sfax follow many of these habits, although they follow others too,

depending on the traditions of their regions. It is worth nothing that Tunisians celebrate other

federal holidays, such as the seventh of November—the day of the change of government

regime—and Women’s Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day.

Camilia Kamoun

األعيياد في الجمهورية التونسية

آاميليا آمون

. تونس بلد مسلم آاألآثرية من البلدان العربية واألعياد المهمة للتونسيين هي أعياد مسلمة

ن هي عيد المولد ورأس العام الهجري يحب التونسيون حبا آثيرا االحتفالت بشكل عام وأهم األعيياد للتونسيي

. لكل هذه المناسبات عادات خاصة ولكل منطقة في البلد عادات خاصة أيضا. وعيد الفطر وعيد األضحى

وهذا وصف العادات التونسية لهذه المناسبات المهمة بالنسبة لعائلتي التي أصلها من صفاقس، ثاني أآبر

.مدينة في تونس

رأس العام الهجري

، وهو أيضا مثل عيد »رشا شانا«رأس العام الهجري آرأس السنة اليهودية الذي يسمى

يحتفل في رأس العام الهجري ببداية سنة جديدة . السنة الجديدة الذي يحتفل به أول يوم في شهر يناير آل عام

في آخر يوم . الحتفال بهيأآل التونسيون طعاما خاصا ل. في التقويم القمري المستعمل في الدين االسالمي

لكي تكون السنة ) عنب جاف(في الكسكس زبيب . العام يطبخ التونسيون آسكسا بلحم جاف يسمى قديد

باالضافة إلى الزبيب توجد في . الجديدة حلوة وهذا بمعنى أن تكون السنة الجديدة غنية بكل ما هو جيد

لطبخ الكسكس يوضع وعاء فوق وعاء آخر . جديدالكسكس بيض مغلي في الماء وهو رمز والدة العام ال

في أول يوم السنة الجديدة . ويختم الفراغ بين الوعائين مع منشفة وهذه العملية رمز إغالق العام الذي اتنهى

الصلصة مطبوخة من مسحوق . وهي صلصة خضراء مع لحم بقر تأآل بالخبز» الملوخية«يأآل التونسيون

فيطبخ ناس في بعض البلدان العربية األخرى . تجفف وتطحن» الملوخية«بتة اسمها أخضر يأتي من ورقة ن

. في مصر تطبخ في الشوربة ولكن في سورية تطبخ لوحدها مع قليل من اللحم. هذه الخضرة وهي طازجة

اس للعام يفتتح رأس العام في تونس باملوخية ألن لونها االخضر آرمز األمل والصحة، أشياء يتمناها الن

طبعا، تجتمع العائالت لالحتفال برأس العام الهجري وهو تتمتعون بهذا األآل الخاص. الجديد .

المولد

المولد هو االحتفال بمولد النبوي الشريف محمد ويقارب أهميته أهمية عيد الميالد

من الحلويات تتكون من هي نوع. »عصيدة الزغوغو«يحتفل بهذه المناسبة بحلويات تسمى . للمسحيين

غير عاصيدة الزغوغو فنوعها يعتمد على الثروة وذوق الناس » العصيدة«يوجد أنواع آثيرة من . الكريم

المحتاجون الذين ليس لهم نقود آثيرة يطبخون العصيدة بالسميد والطحين أما األغنياء . الذين يصنعونها

الفزدقو (hazelnuts) يصنعوها بالمكسرات آالبفريوة (pistachios) وخاصة البندق (pinenuts).

وبمناسبة المولد تجمع العائالت األوالد . ويكون المولد مناسبة للختان أو الطهور، آما يسمى في تونس

وبهذه المناسبة . الذين عمرهم بين عامين وسبعة أعوام للختان وتعمل حفلة الختان إذا سمحت ثروتهم بذالك

، وقبعة حمراء من »جبة«تتكون اللبسة من ثوب أبيض أو اصفر اللون يسمى . ة خاصةيلبس األوالد لبس

تضع النساء حنة على أيادهن ويضع الضيوف نقودا تحت رأس آل ولد لتسديد . أصل ترآي تسمى شاشيية

آثير من الناس في يومنا هذا ال يختن. بعض الوقت، العائالت الثرية تنظم الختان للفقراء. مصاريف الحفل

قديما آان الحالق يفعل الختان. أوالدهم في المنزل بل في المستشفى في وقت والدتهم .

عيد الفطر

عيد الفطر، عيد الصغير، وهو آخر يوم شهر رمضان حيث يحتفل الناس بنهاية رمضان

زآاة الفطر وهي عبارة لقبول فريضة الصيامية عند اهللا يجب إخراج. ويكسبون الطاقة بعد شهر من الصيام

ويحدد المفتي، قائد اإلسالمي في تونس، هذا . عن مبلغ من النقود أو من الطعام تعطى للفقراء والمساآين

يشتري . يوم العيد صباحا يقوم المسلمون بصالة خاصة تسمى صالة العيد. المبلغ من النقود أو الطعام

ويزور أعضاء العائالت . ويقصون شعرهم عند الحالقالناس لعيد الفطر مالبسا جديدة وأحذية جديدة

فتجتمع أعضاء العائالت لوليمة العيد حيث تأآل الكثير من الحلويات والطعام الخاص لعيد . بعضهم للبعض

الشرمولة هي صلصة مصنوعة من الزبيب والبصل . »الشرمولة«مع " المالح) سمك(حوت "الفطر،

هذا، ويتمتع . أآل بعض األغنياء حلويات اوروبية باالضافة إلى الحلويات التونسيةفي ايامنا هذه، ي. والزيت

.

عيد األضحى

، هو مناسبة حيث يذآرالمسلمون »عيد الكبير«عيد األضحى، الذي نسميه في تونس

قال إن اهللا طلب من سيدنا إبراهيم أن يضحى ولده، إسمعيل، وإبراهيم، رغم من ي. تضحية سيدنا إبراهيم لله

عندما شاهد اهللا أن سيدنا إبراهيم آان سيضحي ابنه، أرسل اهللا إليه . أنه يحب إبنه، لم يمكن معصية اهللا

كرم اهللا آل في هذا الحدث نشاهد ما يجب على المسلم أن يفعل لي. خروفا لكي يضحي الخروف في مكان ابنه

وتضحي العائلة التونسية . لذآر هذا التصرف العظيم يحتفل بعيد االضحى في تونس يومين. اإلآرام

يأآل . المسلمة خروفا وتعطي أجزاء من الخروف إلى المحتاجيين أو، بعض الوقت، تعطي خروفا آامال

يد يشوون أجزاء الخروف ويحشون مثال، أول يوم الع. الناس آل جزء من الخروف بما فيه القلب والرأس

مع الخضرة وأعضاء الداخلية الخروف آالكبد والكليتين واليوم الثاني يشوون (intestines) المصارين

في الواقع عيد األضحى آخر يوم الحج ويقوم المسلمون . الرأس في الفرن مع البصل والطماطم والبطاطس

ذين ال يذهبون للحج بتضحية الخروف في بيتهمبتضحية الخروف في مكة أما يقوم التونسيون ال .

هذه هي العدات الصفاقسية االحتفال بأهم المناسبات للتونسيين ويتابع التونسيون خارج

و. مدينة صفاقس آثيرا من هذه العادات برغم من أنهم يتابعون عادات أخرى إعتمادا على تقاليد مدينتهم

يحتفل بها آالسابع من نوفمبر، يوم تحول النظام الحكومي، يجدر بالذآر أن هناك احتفاالت قومية

.وعيد المرأة وعيد االستقالل وعيد الجمهورية وعيد العمل